


What You Wanted to Say (But Didn't)

by Spooky_Skittles



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Mentions of Blood, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Ok I lied, Other, Pining, Realization, Swearing, all my homies hate centricide canon, fuck centricide canon, just a bit of angst tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spooky_Skittles/pseuds/Spooky_Skittles
Summary: Why the hell was his mind still reeling over that? Why was his heart beating so fast all of a sudden?It’s because he was tired, of course. That was the reason. That had to be the reason. Right?“Agh, whatever.”
Relationships: Anarcho-Communism/Communism (Centricide), Tankie | Authleft/Ancom | Libleft, leftist unity - Relationship
Comments: 27
Kudos: 97





	1. eventually, I fall into you

**Author's Note:**

> ofc i jumped at the oportunity to make another multichapter leftist unity fanfic with pining tankie. its my brand.

Tankie slid out of his bed at the speed of a paraplegic sloth. He really _really_ did not want to leave his cozy sheets, which was unusual for the normally active man. It seemed like today was one of those days where his body begged for a break. But alas, that was not possible for the ideology, who still had a million things left to work on. Mostly rereading theory.

He rubs his eyes and splashes water on his face before making his way to the kitchen. Surprisingly, Ancap and Nazi were already awake, sitting on the dinner table there in the living room. “Good morning sleepyhead!” said the capitalist, mocking him. He didn’t have the patience for this shit.

“Shut up, Kulak” he replied, stoic as ever. The other man cackled, gleeful to have provoked him, “Someone woke up grumpy today… Did you finally realize communism can’t work?” The white identitarian sipped his tea, clearly amused by the question.

Honestly, continuing with this conversation would only make it worse, so he flipped the lanky man off and returned to the task at hand: making some breakfast to start up his brain.

The movements were so mechanic he didn’t have to think while doing it. It’s like his mind was in autopilot. His thoughts drifted slowly across the recent events both within the household and outside of it.

Once it was done, he walked back to the living room and sat on the table, across from Ancap, who busied himself with his phone, half eaten croissant still on the plate. He took a long sip from the red mug, the bitterness of the coffee jostling him out of this state of half-slumber. They never spoke during breakfast, all of them too sleepy to argue. It was an unspoken rule for the extremists.

As he took a bite off his own store bought croissant, the marxist heard a yawn from the doorway. He already knew who it was. Qui was very involved with the current major strike going on in the city, always jumping to action when anything like this happened. “I’m gonna go downtown today for the riots,” Ancom sounded ecstatic “I’ll be back late, so don’t worry too much, Tankie.” He shook his head, knowing that teasing tone like the back of his palm. But when he turned around to respond, the words caught on his throat.

“Tha- that’s my hoodie” was all that he could mutter, trying not to choke on the baked good. The room was so silent you could’ve heard a needle fall.

The anarchist didn’t reply at first, but then quis eyes turned wide in realization, “Oh. I can take it off if you want. I don’t know how it ended up in my laundry basket so er...”

“No,” he says, feeling a bit dizzy, breathless from the way it exposed a hint of quis collarbones and the way it looked on quem, oversized but hugging qui wrists and hip perfectly “it’s fine, comrade. You can keep it.” He can practically feel Nazis’ judgment and Ancaps’ ridicule already.

The other beams at him, relief apparent on quis face. Qui still looks a bit flustered as qui utters a small ‘thanks’ and leaves, like an animal fleeing from the place, bat on quis left hand and backpack hanging from one shoulder. The tall man goes back to eating in silence, and, surprisingly, isn’t met with any reaction from the other two ideologies. Even though he thinks what just happened left him looking like a fool.

Why the hell was his mind still reeling over the hoodie? Why was his heart beating so fast all of a sudden?

It’s because he was tired, of course. That was the reason. That _had_ to be the reason. Right?

“Agh, whatever”

\---

A loud thump interrupted his sleep. Alarmed, Tankie jumped out of the bed and quickly ran downstairs to see the source of the noise.

It was Ancom.

Qui was hurt, struggling to keep quemself standing, both the bat and the backpack having been thrown out to the ground, fresh bruises and scars covering great part of quis legs. There was a bandage haphazardly placed on quis right leg, but it was completely wet with quis blood. The anarchist was exhausted, sweat trickling down quis forehead, fighting to breathe well. Qui tried to speak, but couldn’t, coughing and squirming in pain after doing so. Muttering, weakly, that quis ribs hurt.

This was worse than whatever nightmare he was having before.

He rushed to help, grabbing the first aid kit from the bathroom, sleep completely gone from his mind. He wasn’t panicking, no, he _couldn’t_ panic. It would only worsen his friends already poor state. Tankie put quis arm around his shoulder and sat quem down gently to examine the wounds better. He helped quem take off the large sweatshirt, avoiding quis gaze as he grabbed a bag of peas from the freezer, as well as a glass of water for quem to take a painkiller with. Qui took the pill in a second and held onto the glass like a lifeline.

“Um, I’m going to-” the older man swallowed as he realized how close qui was now, placing the glass on the kitchen table “I’m going to raise your shirt a bit, is that ok?”

The other simply nodded, slowly, flinching when the communist gently pulled up the fabric. “Don’t move” he whispered, to which the leftist huffed and replied “I’m trying.” Quis voice was humorless and quis teeth grit as he put the frozen peas over the reddish parches on quis tanned skin. He frowned at the sound, but kept going, parching up the other wounds on Ancoms arms and legs.

**\---**

After some time, the effects of the painkiller start to work, the extremist no longer complaining at every movement.

Tankie puts a drop of alcohol on the cotton he is holding. The tall man musters all the courage he can to finally ask the question, even if the answer mortified him: “What happened at the protest, Anarkiddy?”

The other doesn’t look up from the ground, and hesitates before qui starts to explain. Everything went south in the blink of an eye, a mass of people running, causing stampedes and chaos and...

He feels guilty. He feels so fucking guilty it’s eating him up. He let quem go into this mess alone, and because of that qui could’ve not been able to come back at all. It frustrated him, the nonchalant way qui spoke of such an incident. How was quem almost being beat by some fascists ‘not even that big of a deal’? Awful images sparked into his mind. He can’t help but lash out onto quem, even if none of this was really quis fault.

“This is why you should have read more theory before jumping to action” he says, and immediately regrets it. Quis expression goes from impassive to bothered in a matter of seconds. “Oh, for fucks sake!” qui exclaims “You can’t sit and read theory when something as big as this is going on!”

He continues, because the man is stubborn, like that.

“You got hurt, Ancom. Was it worth it?”

“Yes it fucking was! If it helps further the cause-”

“The cause doesn’t matter to me right now, _you_ do! Your life is more important to me than whatever vague idea of justice you are trying to pursue. Do you not get it? I-”

Oh.

_Oh._

The words die on his throat. He is not thinking clearly anymore. Tankies head starts spinning.

What he wanted to say but didn’t.

‘I love you’.


	2. like a habit, I walk towards your light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t an idiot. He was enough of one not to realize until now, however. Oh god, do the other extremists know? What about Ancom? Does qui even feel the same?
> 
> The pit in his stomach feels like a black hole now. 
> 
> But he is tired as hell, and slowly drifts away into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wOOOO IM BACK!!  
> first of all: ty for the comments and kudos! srry for replying late to so many of them, i appreciate them all, truly. i hope everything is going well ❤
> 
> now, where were we?

Ancom raises an eyebrow.

He breathes out, in an attempt to calm down his racing heart.

“We’ll discuss this in the morning. Now let me finish this. It’s the least I can do.” Qui is still brooding, but complies anyway, most likely because it’s late, and they might wake up the other extremists by continuing at this volume.

The older one leans in, and moves a strand of curly brown hair from quis face, patting down on the dry blood stain on quis forehead. He feels his face go red.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he sees the faintest tint of rose in the other as well.

Tankie places the last band aid around a nasty looking splinter. The air is heavy with the unspoken words of before. He hasn’t quite processed it just yet. I mean, of course he hasn't. “Alright, I am done here. Do you need another aspirin?” he said, moving away, still kneeling infront of the other. Ancom was quiet. Strangely so.

After a few seconds, the other simply shook quis head and fiddled with quis fingers in a way that melt his heart.

God, he was so smitten.

“Ok. Get some rest, comrade.”

\---

It’s almost  4 AM when Tankie tucks the  other  leftist in, making sure to leave medicine and other medical necessities in quis room. He knew qui was perfectly capable to take care of quemself, tonight had been an exception .  For obvious reasons.

Qui was athletic, even if it wasn’t apparent at first glance. That’s why he  wasn’t worried when Ancom said qui was leaving for another protest. That’s why he had panicked so much at the sight of quem collapsing. 

Or maybe it had something to do with these newfound feelings the Russian had harbored for… Marx knows how long.

He honestly assumed his affinity for the shorter one was an innate protective instinct in him. Camaraderie and nothing else. He also assumed he was straight, so, clearly, his assumptions weren’t the greatest. At all.

But then again, he wasn’t a complete dumbass when it came to feelings. He was enough of one not to realize until now, however. Oh god, do the other extremists know? What about Ancom? Does qui even feel the same?

The pit in his stomach feels like a black hole now. But he is tired as hell, and slowly drifts away into a deep sleep.

\---

The communist opens his eyes. He is looking at a dark gray sky, though there are no clouds hanging from it. Like the sun had left and in its place was this darkness that wasn’t quite dark just yet.

But that made no sense. If it had, why was the pasture around him so green and vast? There was something odd about this unknown place. The air was supposed to smell fresh and summery, carrying the earthy scents of nature. But instead it was cold, like lifeless trees in winter. It wasn’t exactly… _welcoming._

Said coldness made him shiver, even though he was wearing his signature ushanka and a long brown coat over his blazer, as well as long trousers and his old military boots. And even though he had a very good resistance to cold.

From afar, he distinguishes a figure. Not one he was able to reach from here. One step, then another. He notices there is no sound, like the world is still around him. Not a single tiny bug, not the cold wind, nothing. Only the crunching of grass under the soles of his feet. The silence is even more unnerving, and he feels the ground shift under him. 

And he swore the person (was it even a person?) he was walking towards was even further away than before. But it hadn't moved. Breathing unevenly, like the place is pressuring his lungs. As if the pasture wants to stretch this moment, to create a distance that can’t be closed. 

He finally reaches the mysterious figure. Facing forward, giving him their back. The extremist hears words that freeze him in his place.

Suddenly he knows exactly what is going to happen. He fears it, he loathes himself every single day for doing what he did. And now this dream, no, this cruel _nightmare,_ was forcing him to relive this. The very moment he regrets the most in his life.

The human mind can really be awful to itself sometimes.

Ancom speaks, voice full of raw emotion. “The flowers really are beautiful.”

A gun somehow materializes in his hand. Not any gun, but exactly the same gun he had used back then. It certainly wasn't there before. He tries with all his might to leave, to stop his hand from raising, to warn quem, to scream but-

Can't. He _can't_. 

The gunshot interrupts the peace of the field and wakes Tankie right up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i had to do it to em 


	3. days gone by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooo skittles is bullshitting lore they're too powerful now

The thing is, political ideologies can’t really _die_ \- not in the same way as humans, anyway.

They can be hurt, they can transform into others, and they can lose their physical form. Their mannerisms and things like accents adapted into that of the groups who had been their most active followers, so as to not stand out too much. But they can always come back or change and morph their appearance and other superficial things whenever they feel like it.

Once an ideology is forgotten forever, once all it’s influence is lost, once there stops being any new research or any people alive who believe in it: that is what could be called the real death. After which, they are unable to become beings of flesh and bone again.

This also means they can be revived, although it takes a lot for one that has been gone through the real death to come back. Almost an impossible occurrence. It is such a painfully slow process that if other ideologies were to nudge humans in their direction it would take years, maybe even centuries, for them to regain all the energy needed to regenerate. Knowledge is easy to destroy, yet very hard to bring back.

So when Tankie doesn’t see or hear anything about Ancom again for over a decade, he is terrified of the sort of damage he could have really done. But that couldn’t be the case, right? There’s no way an ideology with such an extensive history would be so simple to eliminate forever. Certainly not in that time.

Still, the thought would often creep up to his ear and stay there for weeks at a time. He hadn’t been a traitor to the state, but he had been one to his greatest ally.

“There are more important things than friendship right now” he would repeat “You did it to ensure the revolution wouldn’t fail. It was for the best. Just a necessary sacrifice.”

And that is the lie he tells himself for all that time. Until he encounters quem again.

By the time he’s finished working, the night has already fallen. He starts to make his way home when at that moment, the downpour starts. Tankie tries miserably to open the old umbrella he carries, but the force he exerts onto it makes something in its mechanism break with a loud snap. He grunts, and exhales in frustration.

As if on cue, a loud thunder is heard in the distance and the rain hits the ground with more force. He resigns himself and decides to wait in a bar not far from where he is until the worst has passed, covering his head with his briefcase and running towards it.

He pushes the door open, feeling his entire body soaked through by the rain, and curses himself for not buying a better umbrella when he had the chance. The place looks half empty, only some workers chatting amicably along with other poor souls who also got caught in the storm.

He goes to sit down at a table when something- no, some _one_ \- catches his eye. A slouched figure at a table, having a cigarette and looking out the window. He can see the pale green aura they radiate, and almost falls to his feet. Tankie cannot explain the feeling that washes over him. Relief? Anguish? Guilt? Whatever it is makes him nauseous and without a second thought he strides confidently towards quem.

Ancom exhales the smoke as he asks if the seat was empty. “You were gonna sit anyways, might as well get it over with.” qui says, refusing to meet his gaze and instead focusing more intently on the rain. His breath hitches in his throat. The other looks very similar to the previous incarnation, clean shaven face and inviting deep green eyes. There is so much he wants to say, but all he manages to muster is:

“You’re alive.”

It sounds choked up and heavy when he says it. Ancom stops. Quis expression softens ever so slightly as qui turns towards him to respond.

“Of course I am. Though last time we met that’s not what you wanted.” qui says it almost mockingly and his gaze drops to the table, ashamed. He starts sputtering apologies and explanations, but is stopped by the anarchist with a swift gesture.

“I know what you are going to say. I _don’t_ forgive you, not for now at least. But I have reasons to think an alliance with you would be rather beneficial right now. And… We could start over.”

He raises his head to see the others eyes and he can tell the sincerity behind them and the determination they hold. Qui has always been selfless and loyal to the cause no matter what. He swallows hard, “I understand.”

But God. Tankie doesn’t understand. He doesn’t deserve a second chance. Or a third or a fourth. And yet here qui is. Both knowing that this is inevitably going to happen again. That he is going to pull the trigger once more.

A thunder interrupts his thoughts. Ancom ordered for him and a pint of beer is settled in front of him. “Drink up,” qui says, dumping the cigarette butt in the ashtray “I still haven’t told you where I’ve been.”

He does as he is told and quietly listens to the other narrating the stories and people qui encountered in the past decade. Slowly, the leftists strike up a casual conversation and it almost seems like nothing ever happened between them. Tankie enjoys his company. Even if their relationship had changed fundamentally, and even if the air still feels tense at times.

By the time they part ways, the rain has been long gone. He didn’t even realize when the tapping of water on glass had paused.

On the way home, he still cannot believe what has happened back there.

The subtle and casual smiles qui shared while he was talking about something trivial. The way that same smile had turned into a somber expression when explaining the suffering of quis fellow comrades in the conflicts qui had been implicated in. The passion in quis voice when explaining how many people had been on the streets for a workers strike.

He had missed all of it- he had missed all of _quem_. Truly.

Quietly, now in the silence of his own living room, he promises he won’t let history repeat itself anymore. He won’t allow himself to hurt Ancom ever again.


	4. to exist in a fraction of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you even following a recipe?” 
> 
> “Nope! Just winging it, baby.”
> 
> Sigh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuuhhhh yeah

Tankie had spent a long day following his own self-appointed routine that involved the optimal amount of interaction with the rightists, which is to say, the least possible.

In the morning, he went for a run until sunrise, when he would come back and exercise on the personal gym the mansion had. He hated Ancap with a burning passion, but damn the gym was very well equipped. From then until lunch, he would lock himself in his room slash studio and revised his own notes.

By the afternoon, he was exhausted from stopping three fights from happening during lunch. He needed a second coffee before continuing. Fast.

When he got there, the kitchen looked like it had been thrashed by a hurricane. 

Sugar and other various ingredients were spread on the counter and the already towering pile of dirty dishes had new additions. He knew he was going to be the one to clean it all up afterward. With all the patience he could muster at that moment, he spoke up slowly and clearly.

“What the hell. Are you doing?” 

Ancom turned around, spatula on hand, and flashes him a smile “Oh, hey. I’m making cookies!” Qui immediately goes back to mixing aggressively, spilling batter everywhere in the process. 

Tankie wasn’t even gonna question why qui was making cookies in the first place. He just wanted a black coffee. However, the questions that were nagging at the back of his head sort of jumped out of it. “How are your wounds healing? Have you changed the bandage on the arm?”

The other glared for a few seconds and rolled quis eyes dismissively. “Ugh, yes it’s all fine now. Why are you so worried, anyway?” Qui replies, adding an obscene amount of sugar to the mix. “You really flipped the fuck out last night.” He coughs, looking around as if an excuse was gonna fall from the skies. This was the one topic he wanted to avoid. 

He settled for a simple “Doesn’t matter. You’re making a mess, let me help you.”

Apparently, that was a satisfying enough answer for Ancom, as qui continues with quis task and gives Tankie a few things to do, who simultaneously tried to clean the disaster already created.

“Are you even following a recipe?” 

“Nope! Just winging it, baby.”

Sigh. 

\----

Quickly he realized how much like routine this felt, and how good too. When they both put their minds to it, they actually make a pretty decent team. Plus, manual work helped make him less tired. He was losing time he could have spent organizing his theory books, but to be honest, he didn’t quite care. He was with Ancom and that was worth losing time for. 

Tankie looked up from the counter briefly. The cookies were already in the oven, ”Have you checked-”

He was cut off by Ancom’s finger dashing a streak of flour across his face. Qui was holding back a laugh. Confused, Tankie kind of stood there for a few seconds. Then, he gazed at the cocoa powder and his reflexes kicked in. What he was going to do was childish sure, but he had pride.

“Two can play this game”, he said, as he menacingly held a spoonful of the ingredient, walking towards Ancom, who by this point was full-on giggling. Quis arms were in a defensive posture, but there was no use. The taller one started letting the cocoa powder fall on quis hair, causing quem to squeal in shock.

Qui immediately tried to get it out. “Argh- you motherfucker, I had just washed it today!” 

Tankie laughed in delight at quis reaction. Ancom, who was perhaps equally or more stubborn than him, took this as a challenge. “Let’s see who’s laughing when your precious ushanka is completely ruined!”

It was officially on.

They proceeded to run around the kitchen chasing each other with whatever food they could find in the cabinets. At some point, Ancom threatened to throw an egg at him. Disaster was once again the one true ruling ideology in the household.

It’s funny how Tankie came into this task with the intention of helping make amends for the mess qui had made, and instead left making an even bigger, worse mess.

Tankie was rubbing his face with a paper towel in an attempt to get the mix of water, flour and god knows what else out of his face when an alarm on his phone started going off. 

He stood watching it beep, perplexed. “What was this alarm for?”

Ancom shrugged. They stayed thinking about the purpose of the alarm for a few more seconds. It’s almost like they were making something in there _before_ the food fight. Something edible. Sweet, perhaps?

“Oh shit, the cookies!”

Luckily they weren’t _too_ burnt. Just brownish. More than they should’ve been, probably. For a batch made without a recipe, they tasted delicious. 

They sat on the floor and ate them, both exhausted from all the running around they had done. He glanced over at quem, who was taking a bite out of quis third cookie.

Quis cat-like eyes closed in delight as qui relaxed quis back against the counter. Ancom never cooked with an apron, which was clearly a mistake because now quis shirt was full of stains and _wait a goddamn second-_

“That’s my shirt.” 

He made the mistake of saying that part out loud. Qui had a blank expression on quis face, and under the artificial light of the pompous design kitchen, he could clearly see quem… blush. Like, actually blush, not in a drunk way.

“Uhh, yeah? Guess they keep ending up...mixed up with my laundry. Sorry about that.”

Tankie replicated that same expression. In a similar fashion to the hoodie of the previous day, the shirt was big on Ancom. 

Honestly, he had no idea why it kept happening, but he thanked whatever entity was responsible for this. 

He cleared his throat again, “No need to apologize.”

Somehow the distance between the two of them was shorter than before. He wanted to move away, but a part of him just allowed it to happen. Ancom sighed in relief and kept scrolling through quis phone, occasionally perking up to tell him something or try to strike up a conversation. He was trying his best to pay attention, seriously. But there was something about just being with quem that filled him with desire.

An overwhelming urge to be _quis_. And for quem to be with him.

He was conflicted as to what that made him feel. As to what that entailed. As to why he even thought would happen if he said it. Like right now. If he just spoke up. Maybe cupped quis cheek. Maybe place his lips on quis carefully. Maybe qui would reciprocate.

He shut down that train of thought quickly enough. He was in love, but he wasn’t a masochist. Teasing himself with what he knew he couldn’t have. How sad.

Qui put quis head on his shoulder gently, because of course. The knots in his stomach were doing and undoing themselves by the second. He nodded to whatever qui was saying. Leaving his mind blank for a second. Quis hair tickled his chin ever so slightly. 

“-really aren’t harming anyone and we all have bigger fish to fry than whether or not someone creates new words for their own comfort.” Silence. Qui pinched his arm, causing Tankie to almost jump, “You’re spacing out.”

“S-sorry.” 

Qui made a dismissive gesture, “‘S okay. I don’t mean to be like- nosey or anything but what’s up with that? I mean, spacing out is kinda my thing, ya know?”

He let out a chuckle, “It’s nothing, Anarkitty. I’m- Well…” He trailed off, trying to clasp the words from his brain, something which usually came so naturally to him. Hours of giving quem lectures and all of a sudden he can’t speak to the anarchist without unnecessarily long pauses. “You’re ok, right?” 

Ancom lifted quis head to look at him straight in the eyes, which didn’t calm down his nerves at all. Quis expression was nothing like the one qui had spared him yesterday or today when he had asked the same question. Stern, maybe even pitiful too. Qui clasped his hand and spoke up, “I am. Genuinely.”

He sighed a short ‘good’ under his breath. 

Their hands stayed linked. 

Qui understood. And momentarily his mind knew peace.

\----

Nazi had to walk in on the duo a few minutes later. He just _had_ to, because having a nice quiet moment with your crush of about 300 years is downright impossible these days. 

“Ancap is gonna flip his shit when he sees what you’ve done to his designer kitchen, fags.”

The two leftists spoke in complete unison: “Fuck off.”

**Author's Note:**

> idk how long this will be ohmy im drowning in wips. welp. 
> 
> feel free to dm me abt literally anything anytime babeyy   
> have a good day/night<3
> 
> twitter: cosmixseul  
> tumblr: goblin-enbyz


End file.
